


Protocol

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Super Junior-M
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sungmin saves the Prince of Wu’s life during an assassination attempt. His reward—becoming a member of the Prince’s personal bodyguard. Zhou Mi is beautiful and proud and aware of his responsibilities, but soon both men are caught between duty and desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkymingo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pinkymingo).



> For pinkymingo, who asked for modern-day Prince Mimi in leather and Sungmin as his bodyguard.

Sungmin knows his place. He’s part of a machine; he’s a link in the chain of security that runs around the royal family of the Kingdom of Chu. In himself, he ranks higher than a chambermaid but lower than an aide-de-camp, but such comparisons are useless because, in an emergency, his words, his actions, could decide the fate of a nation.

He tries not to think of it in those terms. For him, this is a job. He’s always taken pride in his work, always excelled at it. Until recently he served the Marquis of Jingzhou, but now he’s standing in the Ministry of War, waiting to be summoned to his new position as personal bodyguard to the Prince of Wu.

He’s here because he saved the Prince’s life. An assassination attempt in Milan, beneath the marble arcades. Shadows and sunlight, the click of high heels on tiles, the scent of warm chocolate and pastry in the air. The sudden, startled eruption of a flock of pigeons in the square, and instinct had made him turn. A man, Eastern European, maybe Russian, dressed in a tailored suit and carrying a box of cakes, the box falling, pastries spattering onto the ground, and a gun in the man’s hands, a Makarov in an upward swing.

A split-second in which Sungmin realised the assailant wasn’t aiming for the Marquis of Jingzhou but at his cousin, the Prince of Wu—and then Sungmin reacted. No time to draw his firearm. He leapt into a flying kick, knowing he couldn’t stop the shot, but he could misdirect it. His foot connected with the gun-barrel. A shot, the sound of glass breaking. Before he landed, Sungmin kicked out with his other foot. The assassin blocked him, sent them both tumbling to the tiled floor. By then the other bodyguards had closed around the Marquis, and people were screaming and running, and the Prince—the Prince had ducked away from his minders and was helping a woman to her feet.

Sungmin rose just before the assassin. He reached the gun first, kicked it across the ground. No time for that. He needed to get His Highness to safety. Sungmin sprinted to him, danger prickling his neck, and seized the Prince— _run, sir, run_ —shoved him through the doors of Louis Vuitton, shouts scattering in their wake, one hand on the Prince’s nape, pushing him forwards and down— _be careful, stay low_ —and then along an access corridor and out onto Via San Raffaele, the Duomo looming ahead, and into a taxi, the driver voluble with excitement and only too happy to break a dozen traffic laws to get them to the consulate. 

A clerk ushered them into a private room deep within the building and went in search of the consul. They stood there and looked at one another. It was the first time Sungmin had seen the Prince up close, and he was beautiful, kohl-smudged eyes and pale skin and hair dyed the colour of flame, his body all long lines and sharp angles. Though dimmed by circumstance, his charisma still caught at Sungmin.

“You saved my life,” the Prince said, his voice husky, as if he was holding in a flood of emotion.

Sungmin met his gaze. “I was just following protocol.”

The Prince breathed out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He’d kept himself together for what must have felt like the longest fifteen minutes of his life, and now he broke. 

Sungmin hesitated only a moment before closing the space between them. He held the Prince, feeling awkward because the Prince was taller than him, but His Highness leaned forward and tucked his head against Sungmin’s neck, his hair brushing Sungmin’s face, and he trembled in Sungmin’s arms. He didn’t make another noise. He just shook, a leaf in an autumn breeze, and by the time the door opened to admit the consul and his staff, the Prince was himself again—paler, jaw set with tension and his eyes too quick and sharp, but with his control firmly back in place.

Despite opposition from the consul, the royal visit continued according to schedule. The Marquis feigned illness brought about by shock and kept to his hotel suite. Sungmin waited in the sitting room in case the Marquis needed him, and spent most of his time following the coverage of the Prince’s public engagements. His Highness was a consummate professional, fielding questions about the assassination attempt and giving careful, considered replies when Milanese police revealed that the assassin had been in the pay of the Kingdom of Qi, the nation that bordered Chu to the north. Most of all, the Prince smiled and smiled, not just for the cameras but for the people he met; he smiled and the warmth shone from his eyes, natural and unforced, as if he wanted to share everything he had.

The visit lasted three more days. The Prince didn’t exchange another word with Sungmin, didn’t even glance in his direction whenever he called upon his cousin the Marquis, but by the time they disembarked the private jet in the capital of Chu, Sungmin was a de facto member of the Prince’s personal bodyguard.

Now here he stands in Wuhan, half the country away from Nanjing and his old life, waiting for his appointment to be made official. This is his reward. Promotion, of sorts. There’s a scroll of commendation tucked away in the luggage standing unpacked in his new quarters. _His Most Excellent Majesty the King of Chu appreciates the loyalty of Li Cheng Min in the matter of his son, Zhou Mi, Prince of Wu_...

The Prince of Wu is beautiful, haughty and fragile, autocratic and kind. Sungmin can’t forget the way Zhou Mi felt in his arms, the way he trembled, the way he locked up his fear and put aside his human emotions and became something more, a diplomat, a prince, something perfect and flawless that reflected back tenfold whatever shone at it.

But reflection is all it is, and no matter how bright Zhou Mi shines, there’s something kept small and closed inside him.

Sungmin wants to find it, wants to open it up. And that’s not just stupid, it’s dangerous.

This promotion. It’s not a reward. It’s going to feel more like punishment.

*

“You’ve had an interesting career.” Colonel Han, head of the Prince’s security team, sits behind a desk. In front of him is Sungmin’s dossier, a comparatively slim file not quite an inch thick. Most of Sungmin’s career highlights are the kind that don’t leave a paper-trail and don’t receive public commendations. He’s surprised that Colonel Han has that much on him, even if most of it is redacted to leave only a skeleton of suggestion.

“Four years in Unified Korea’s black ops,” Colonel Han muses, tapping the dossier, “two years as personal bodyguard to King Siwon, and eighteen months as a mercenary before you were hired by the Marquis of Jingzhou.”

There’s a silence. Sungmin doesn’t intend on breaking it.

“Very well,” Colonel Han says, as if they’ve reached an agreement. He looks pleased and slides the dossier into a drawer, exchanging it for the security passes and codes that will grant Sungmin access to the corridors of the east palace, the Prince’s private residence within the greater palace of Wuhan.

Sungmin studies the codes, commits them to memory. He listens as Colonel Han explains his new duties. They are much the same as his previous duties, with one exception: he has to spend two weeks each month on guard outside the Prince’s bedchamber all night. 

“The Prince sometimes has guests,” Colonel Han says, his face carefully devoid of expression. “They are not permitted to remain until the morning. His Highness is aware of this, but sometimes... It’s your job to remind him of the fact. Occasionally it will be necessary for you to remove some of the Prince’s guests. Use force if required. A selection of high denomination notes in various currencies can be found in the third drawer of the writing bureau at the end of the corridor. Distribute them as the situation demands.”

Sungmin tries not to show his surprise. “The Prince uses whores?”

Colonel Han smiles, bland and professional. “Everyone has a price.” 

*

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wu is rather vocal during sex. The first night Sungmin is on duty, he stands with his heels exactly one inch away from the bedroom door and listens to Zhou Mi purr and moan and yelp his way to orgasm. Sungmin closes his eyes and sweats, keeping his mind focused on his task while his senses clamour for sight and smell and taste and touch of what he can only hear.

“You get used to it,” his colleagues tell him, good-natured but resigned, but Sungmin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. He’s guarded a lot of people, heard those people have plenty of sex, but it’s never affected him before. It’s different with Zhou Mi, and not just because he’s expected to go in and break things up after a couple of hours.

That’s the most difficult part of his new job. He always knocks on the door and waits for the command to enter. From those few words he knows Zhou Mi’s mood, reads it from the timbre of his voice. When it’s husky and rich with satiation, Sungmin doesn’t dare look at the Prince. He made that mistake once and saw Zhou Mi lying on his front on the bed, naked but for the dark green silk sheets tangled about his ankles. His hair tumbled around his face and spilled onto the pillow in wild disorder; his lips were swollen, his body slicked with sweat; his breath still came swift and panting. 

Sungmin had seen men in more provocative poses, offering him all manner of depraved acts, but none of them had aroused him as painfully as the sight of Zhou Mi exhausted and smiling and obviously well-fucked. It was too intimate; it roused irrational, fluttering feelings in Sungmin that he didn’t want to explore.

He thinks he’s got it under control now. When he goes into the Prince’s bedchamber, the only thing that bothers him is the delicate suggestion of Zhou Mi’s scent—jasmine and sandalwood and vetiver. It creeps under his skin and stays in Sungmin’s head for the rest of the night. But apart from that, everything’s good. Everything’s fine. He does his job. He follows protocol, listens to Zhou Mi getting fucked and, after a suitable elapse of time—suitable being something that Sungmin determines on a case-by-case basis—he knocks and goes in. 

Most of the time, the guest dresses and leaves without complaint. Sungmin pays them. He’s buying their silence, he knows that, they know that, but it makes him uncomfortable. He feels that it’s cheapening Zhou Mi’s affections, especially when some of the guests return on several occasions but keep on accepting the money.

Sometimes a guest is difficult. 

Nine weeks into his service, Sungmin hears the muffled crash of something breaking inside the Prince’s room. His reaction is swift and instinctive: he bursts through the door without knocking, gaze strafing the room. 

Zhou Mi looks startled, hemmed in on one side of a small table. He’s wearing an unbuttoned shirt and nothing else. His hair is mussed and kohl is streaked down his face. On the other side of the table the guest looms, huge and rough. A lamp lies smashed at his feet. He turns to Sungmin and scowls at the interruption.

Sungmin flashes a furious look at Zhou Mi then ignores him to focus on the guest. “Get dressed,” Sungmin orders. “Get out.”

The guest is taller than Zhou Mi and twice as broad. He grins as he looks down at Sungmin, his thoughts easy to guess— _look at this shortarse, this little man trying to play the big tough guy_ —but before those thoughts have finished passing over the guest’s face, Sungmin is across the room and swinging the guest around, forcing him to his knees with one arm twisted agonisingly behind his back.

Most people would give up, but the guest is stupid. He struggles. Sungmin breaks the little finger on the guest’s right hand. It’s an accident, of course. The guest gives a high, thin scream. When Sungmin lets him go, the guest scrambles into his clothes, cursing the whole time and whining whenever he jolts his injured finger.

“Thank you,” Zhou Mi murmurs, low enough that only Sungmin hears it. He glances again at the Prince, and now he sees the bruises on the inside of Zhou Mi’s thighs. Rage burns like acid, churning his stomach. Sungmin pays the guest, escorts him out of the palace, then follows him silently, stealthily. A short distance from the guest’s place of residence, Sungmin slides from the darkness and knocks him unconscious. He breaks the other fingers of the guest’s right hand, takes the man’s wallet, and shoves the money into the charity box of a nearby temple.

He returns to the east palace and knocks on the Prince’s door. Zhou Mi is curled on a chaise longue, covered by a blanket. He looks up when Sungmin comes in.

“Forgive me,” Sungmin says. “I left you unguarded for thirty-six minutes. Please report me to Colonel Han. I will accept any punishment for my dereliction of duty.”

Zhou Mi draws the blanket closer around his shoulders. “Where did you go for those thirty-six minutes?”

Sungmin says nothing. The silence stretches out.

Finally Zhou Mi lifts his head. He smiles, soft and wan. “I will not report you. That will be your punishment.”

Sungmin bows. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Zhou Mi waves a hand in dismissal. He’s still smiling. 

*

It’s almost four months into his new service. Sungmin is familiar with the east palace now, as comfortable within it as if he’d lived there all his life. He stands in his usual position outside the Prince’s bedchamber and listens.

The past few weeks have been quiet, with no guests to trouble the nights. Zhou Mi has been involved in talks with the State of Wei, aiming towards a mutually beneficial trade agreement. It’s an important deal, and the Prince has worked hard in its planning. It’s also delicate. The King of Wei is a pompous, self-important fool in Sungmin’s opinion, and the high ministers are more interested in observing protocol and maintaining their august dignities than in helping their nation to grow and their people to become prosperous. Zhou Mi has to flatter just enough not to seem obsequious; he has to suggest equality between Chu and Wei without implying that Chu is weak in seeking this trade alliance.

Political double-talk gives Sungmin a headache. It gives Zhou Mi sleepless nights. Sungmin has heard him pacing the room for hour after hour, and it pulls at him, affects him in a different way to the times he’s heard Zhou Mi having sex.

Tonight, after the gong announces the hour of the Ox, Zhou Mi opens the door and looks out. His face is striped with moonlight; he wears black silk pyjamas trimmed with gold. His hair is fluffy at the back and his eyes are weary.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “Will you sit with me?”

Sungmin steps inside the room. It feels different this time, more personal. It’s only the two of them in the half light, and the air is full of Zhou Mi’s scent—not just the cologne he favours but the scent of his body. Sungmin breathes it in then catches himself, embarrassed.

The embroidered quilts are rucked up. The gauzy curtains are half drawn around the bed. The pillow holds the indentation of where Zhou Mi rested his head. Somehow it’s more intimate seeing the room like this than when he comes in here to tidy away Zhou Mi’s guests. Arousal curls within him, and Sungmin hopes for a distraction.

Zhou Mi moves around the room, the silk whispering over his body. He pauses beside a _go_ board placed on a table between two armchairs. His fingers stir over the black and white pieces; he looks up. “Do you play?”

Sungmin shakes his head. “No, sir.” He pauses, ashamed of his ignorance, and adds, “You could teach me, sir, if you wanted.”

A smile curves Zhou Mi’s lips. “Some other time, perhaps. I needed a good opponent tonight.”

There’s a double entendre in the Prince’s words, Sungmin is sure of it. He’s not sure what to do. Although he dislikes the idea of being a procurer, he makes the offer: “Do you want me to arrange for someone to visit?”

Zhou Mi looks at him, blank for a moment, and then he laughs. “No.” He’s blushing, looking almost as embarrassed as Sungmin feels. “No, that’s not... I just want to talk with someone.”

Now Sungmin feels like a fool. “What do you want to talk about, sir?”

“I don’t know.” Zhou Mi exhales, leaves the _go_ board, and wanders around the room. He’s full of restless energy, but looks like he’s too tired to think straight. At length he perches on the edge of the bed and pats the mattress. “Come, sit with me.”

Sungmin sits. He runs a hand over the sheets as if to smooth out the wrinkles, then stops, aware that his gesture could be misconstrued. Except it wouldn’t be misconstrued, it’d be the truth. He wants to touch Zhou Mi, and instead all he can do is stroke the memory of his body on the sheets.

Sungmin puts his hand in his lap. It seems safer there.

Zhou Mi smiles. “We haven’t really spoken, have we, Sungmin?”

It would be rude to point out that princes don’t usually talk to their bodyguards unless the situation renders it necessary. Sungmin ducks the question, saying in his most polite, professional tone, “Please call me Cheng Min.”

“You prefer the Chinese version of your name?” Zhou Mi affects mild surprise.

Sungmin gives him a look.

“Then I will call you Sungmin.” Zhou Mi nods, his smile warming. He seems pleased by this small victory, lounging back on one elbow amongst the heaped pillows. “I read your file. How does a Korean mercenary end up guarding the Prince of Wu?”

“Thought you said you’d read my file.”

Zhou Mi laughs. “It’s very sparse in its details. There’s a lot of redactions.” He pauses, eyes gleaming. “You must be dangerous.”

With a pleasurable shock, Sungmin realises the Prince is flirting with him. It’s been a long time since he engaged in anything so innocent, and he’s not sure he knows how to play this game any more than he knows how to play _go_. “I am not dangerous to you, Highness, if that is your concern.”

“Not a concern.” Zhou Mi is smiling again. He looks relaxed. Without the smoky lines of kohl he usually wears, his eyes seem warmer. He seems more approachable, more human. Dropping his gaze, Zhou Mi strokes the quilt, fingers tracing over the individual stitches that form an embroidered peacock. “Colonel Han is full of praise for you. He says you’re steady and reliable, always mindful of your duty. You do everything by rote and you do it perfectly—paperwork, training, service, keeping your quarters tidy, socialising with your colleagues, everything.” 

Zhou Mi falls silent for a moment. Lifts his head. “He thinks you’re too perfect.”

Sungmin holds his gaze. “I do my job, sir. I do it to the best of my ability.”

“Yes.” Zhou Mi sits up, leans closer. “Your colleagues respect you, but they say you’re like a machine. They say you have no soul.”

That hurts, just a little. Sungmin looks away.

“I know differently,” Zhou Mi says. “That day in Milan, when you saved me. When we were in the consulate. When you...” He stops, continues swiftly, “What you did for me then, no one else has ever done. You broke protocol.” There’s a blush on his face now, colouring his cheeks. “And since you were reassigned to me—you stand outside the doors. You listen.”

Heat floods Sungmin, embarrassment twisting against the knowledge of his own base desire.

“The other guards stand at the end of the corridor where they can’t hear,” Zhou Mi says. “You stand right outside and listen to me.”

Sungmin is burning up. “Am I breaking protocol there, too?”

“Probably. But I like it.” Zhou Mi darts a look at him. “It helps. I like knowing that you’re there.” He lowers his gaze again. “The night you removed that man—the one who broke the lamp...”

“The one who hurt you,” Sungmin says, and hears the anger in his voice.

“Sometimes I make the wrong choice.” Zhou Mi bites his lip, and Sungmin just _aches_ for him. “Sometimes it’s hard to say no.”

Sungmin struggles against his first response. He has to stop and think before he can find the right words. “Highness, I cannot help you on the choices you make, but I can help you to say no.”

Another smile, sadder this time. “One should know pain occasionally.”

“Yes,” Sungmin agrees. “But one should not seek it out.” 

Zhou Mi stares, and then he exhales, tension slipping from him. His eyes close. He trembles, just slightly.

A long silence follows. Sungmin is afraid he’s overstepped his boundaries. Uncomfortable, aware of how close he’s getting to something he has no right to aim for, he gets up and walks around the bedchamber, willing himself to calm down.

The Prince remains on the bed and picks up an earlier thread of conversation as if it had never dropped. “Everyone says you’re perfect, but that just makes me curious. Perfection is so hard to achieve.”

Sungmin takes a breath, ready to tell him about the days and weeks and months and years of martial arts training, the exercises he’s done to open up his senses so he feels actions and reactions on another level when the situation demands it, but Zhou Mi hasn’t finished yet.

“I find it hard to believe in perfection, though I believe very much in perfectionism. That can be a weakness; and of course, where there is weakness, there cannot be perfection.”

Sungmin feels vulnerable. He doesn’t like it. “I am not perfect.” 

Zhou Mi smiles, inviting confidences. “What is your weakness, Lee Sungmin?”

_You_.

“Nothing, sir. Not anything serious, anyway.” Sungmin forces a smile, nice and easy. “I’m fond of dessert. Too fond, sometimes, so I have to watch my weight.”

“Oh.” Zhou Mi looks at him, gaze lingering on his thighs. 

“I like the colour pink,” Sungmin adds, feeling hot and bothered again. “That’s kind of embarrassing for a mercenary.”

“Pink!” Amusement ripples through Zhou Mi’s voice.

“Yeah.” Sungmin scrubs a hand through his hair, shuffles his feet. Gives a self-conscious grin. “I have a pink plush bunny rabbit by my pillow.”

Zhou Mi laughs, clapping his hands in delight.

Sungmin takes the chance. “Why aren’t you perfect, sir?”

The laughter falls from Zhou Mi. He goes absolutely still, and Sungmin curses himself for asking the question. Silence spreads between them, but oddly, it doesn’t feel awkward. Sungmin waits, realising that Zhou Mi is considering how best to answer him.

After a moment, Zhou Mi says, “My father disapproves of many of my actions.”

“With all due respect, your father is an idiot.” Sungmin wants to take back the words as soon as they leave his lips. Insulting the King in front of the Prince is perhaps not the brightest thing he’s ever done. He tries to explain himself. “It’s my understanding that Wu is an autonomous state within Chu, and that your decisions cannot be overruled by the King unless agreed to and ratified by the Council of Ministers of both Wu and Chu. Also, it is my understanding that you’ve brought prosperity to Wu. The people admire you; your ministers respect you—”

Zhou Mi interrupts. “You’re my bodyguard. You have to say these things.”

“I’m a Korean mercenary,” Sungmin corrects him. “I don’t have to do anything.”

They stare at each other. The night-shadows seem to thicken. Sungmin hears the distant clash of the gong in the courtyard to signal the hour of the Tiger.

“My father...” Zhou Mi glances down, studies his long, elegant fingers, bare of jewellery. “He disapproves of me taking male lovers.”

Sungmin looks at him, remembers all the glimpses he’s seen of the real Zhou Mi beneath the pretty facade of the Prince of Wu, and says, “I think you should make yourself happy, Highness.”

Zhou Mi lifts his head, chin at a defiant angle. “I am a prince.”

“Yes,” Sungmin says. “But you are still a man.”

*

Zhou Mi opens the door every night after that when Sungmin is on duty. Any time between the middle of the hour of the Rat and the end of the hour of the Tiger, the door opens and Zhou Mi smiles at him, and it’s an invitation rather than a summons. 

Sungmin knows they’re breaking protocol, but he doesn’t care. He justifies his decision by telling himself that he’s following the command of his royal master. Not that Zhou Mi has any sort of mastery over him, because Sungmin still considers himself to be a mercenary, even if he took an oath to serve the Kingdom of Chu and the Prince of Wu, in that order. But whatever. It’s his job to keep Zhou Mi safe, and if a few hours of conversation or the occasional lesson in go makes Zhou Mi feel content, secure, and less alone, then Sungmin is glad to be of service. 

Each morning, he reports to Colonel Han. He gives precise details of when he entered and exited the Prince’s suite, fully aware that, if he finds it necessary, the Colonel can check the information against the footage from the security cameras placed in the corridors. 

The first time Sungmin made mention of spending part of the night with the Prince, Colonel Han gave him a sharp look and asked, “What did you do?” 

“We talked, sir.”

“You talked.” Colonel Han offered no comment, insinuated nothing with his tone or expression. 

“If you would prefer me not to have conversations with His Highness, I would request that you reassign me, sir.”

Colonel Han shook his head, gaze fixed on Sungmin. “That won’t be necessary. Talk to His Highness if he wishes it.”

Zhou Mi wishes it every night, and Sungmin accepts the invitation, tells himself it’s a duty. That makes it easier to bear. He can look at the pale expanse of chest revealed by the open collar of Zhou Mi’s pyjama shirt. He can admire the laughing expression in Zhou Mi’s eyes when he blunders into a mistake playing _go_. He can appreciate Zhou Mi’s long legs and the high, tight handful of his ass. He can sit with Zhou Mi and do all of this because it’s his job, and he’s good at his job.

He doesn’t let himself imagine what would happen if he hooked a finger in the pyjama top and unfastened the rest of the buttons. He doesn’t wonder what Zhou Mi would look like naked and spread out beneath him, or how it would feel to have Zhou Mi’s hands on him, or how easy it would be to shove aside the _go_ board and just take what he wants. He doesn’t think about how Zhou Mi would taste—his mouth, his skin, his cock, his ass—and he doesn’t imagine kissing Zhou Mi, doesn’t imagine all the words he wants to pour into Zhou Mi’s ears: _I could make you happy, Highness. I could show you all the pleasure you deserve. Just ask me, and I will keep you safe forever and will never share myself with anyone but you, only you_. 

Sungmin keeps his mind on his duty and pushes all other thoughts—wicked, dangerous distractions—to the back of his mind, where they clamour like temple bells and scratch at him like thorns. He ignores them, buries them under the pretence of learning _go_ and discussing the poems of Qu Yuan.

He is not in love with Zhou Mi. He’s just a professional doing a job.

*

Zhou Mi’s diplomacy bears fruit, and the royal duke Anxi arrives as ambassador for the State of Wei for further talks. Buoyant with optimism, Zhou Mi offers lavish entertainment that manages to appeal to the old-fashioned values of Wei while suggesting the modernism of Chu, seating both in the exuberant culture of Wu. For two days the ambassador is escorted around Wuhan and shown every courtesy by the Prince and his ministers; for two days Sungmin stands quiet amongst Zhou Mi’s bodyguards and observes everything. 

Sungmin dislikes the ambassador on sight. Anxi is almost twice Zhou Mi’s age, the lines of bitterness rubbed into his face sitting ill with his fleshy features. His mouth seems continually wet and he has the protruding eyes of a toad. He secretes bonhomie, oozes political sense, but Sungmin sees ruined ambition and jealousy, and he hopes for a swift conclusion to the trade talks.

On the third day, the Prince takes the Ambassador hawking on Liangzi Lake. It’s a small, select group—just Zhou Mi and Anxi and their respective security teams, plus the falconers and palace staff responsible for serving lunch. 

The morning is cool, mist draping over parts of the lake, the smell of damp earth lingering as they stroll at the water’s edge. Sungmin takes up position, gaze scanning the lake first, then the landscape around them. The hawking trip was a spur of the moment decision; it’s unlikely that anyone knows they’re here, but Sungmin can’t relax. Not while the ambassador still casts his heavy shadow, and certainly not while Anxi looks at Zhou Mi with predatory intent.

If truth be told, Sungmin understands the ambassador’s devouring looks. He understands them all too well. Today Zhou Mi is dressed from head to toe in leather, black and supple and gleaming in the muted light. He’s wearing a leather changshan that fits close over the torso then flares in panels from the hips, with a split up one side to reveal skin-tight leather trousers tucked into boots. Silver zips run the length of the sleeves; diamond straps fasten the changshan at the collar and across the chest and along one side-seam. The contrast of black leather, pale skin, kohl-lined eyes and flame-red hair would tempt even the Dragon King to rise from the lake. Sungmin has to force himself to look away and attend to his job when all he wants to do is fill his gaze with Zhou Mi’s unearthly beauty.

The Prince is _happy_ , too—and not just because of what could come from the ambassador’s visit. He’s excited to be here, proud of his favourite birds from the royal mews, offering Anxi first choice from the gyrfalcons, peregrines, and goshawks. He’s tender, stroking the back of his forefinger gently over the wings of a silver gyrfalcon, speaking softly to calm a fierce-looking goshawk. When they set the birds loose to hunt, Anxi tosses a peregrine as if it were nothing; Zhou Mi lifts his wrist and urges his gyrfalcon to take wing, and he smiles and laughs and calls encouragement as the birds fly up, climb higher, and begin to stalk their prey.

The hawks bring down several ducks and a swan. The falconers send out dogs to retrieve the wildfowl. By now the sun is high and warmth has filtered through the mist, clearing it but leaving the day muggy. A makeshift tent is erected and lunch is served beneath the canopy. Sungmin remains outside and watches grey clouds gather in the distance, feels the weight of the heat in the air increase until the shrilling insects begin to fall silent.

Halfway through the hour of the Sheep, Zhou Mi and Anxi leave the tent. Sungmin and one of the ambassador’s men fall in behind them. Zhou Mi turns, still happy and full of confidence. “His Excellency wants to see the view from the Cloud-Viewing Pavilion. You don’t need to follow us too closely.”

Anxi’s man nods and hangs back. Sungmin doesn’t like it. He lets the Prince and the ambassador get a few steps ahead, then continues tailing them, leaving the path and moving through the grass to keep Zhou Mi always in sight.

The Cloud-Viewing Pavilion sits on a spur of land nudging into the lake. Sungmin went over every inch of the pavilion when they first arrived here. It’s a safe place, but he can’t shake off a feeling of unease as Zhou Mi escorts Anxi up the steps and into the pavilion. There’s a stone screen inside that depicts a local myth. It blocks the Prince and the ambassador from Sungmin’s line of vision. He doesn’t like this, not any of it. 

He heads for the pavilion, glances back once to fix the positions of the other bodyguards. There’s a hiss in his earpiece and one of his colleagues asks, “Trouble?”

Sungmin taps a switch to respond. “It might be nothing.” 

A flicker of movement from within the pavilion—the flash of Anxi’s bright-coloured clothing, a merging of shadows, and Sungmin doesn’t hear the next transmission, he doesn’t hear anything but the pounding of his heartbeat as he hurls himself towards the pavilion. He vaults up the steps and takes in the situation at a glance: Zhou Mi in Anxi’s grip, his head turned from the ambassador, body bent like a bow to escape Anxi’s slobbering kisses, unable to struggle because of the brutal lock Anxi has on his left arm. 

Sungmin wants to tear Anxi apart, but contents himself with a savage blow to the ambassador’s elbow, forcing him to loosen his grip. The Prince gives a wordless cry of pain as his arm is released and almost falls to his knees. Sungmin puts himself between Zhou Mi and Anxi, shoving the ambassador into a corner.

Anxi laughs, angry and embarrassed. “You’ll regret this, Zhou Mi. You’ll be sorry you rejected me. You disgust me with your pride and your happiness, with your naive stupidity. Wei will only do business with a real man. I’ll deal only with the King of Chu, not a sodomite little prince who pretends to know how the real world is run but doesn’t have the balls to do what it takes to close the deal.”

Zhou Mi’s intake of breath is sharp and wounded. Sungmin wants to respond to it, but he can’t. He stares at Anxi, not bothering to hide his hatred. 

The ambassador won’t meet his gaze. “Call off your dog,” Anxi says, a sneer in his voice.

“Agent Li,” Zhou Mi says quietly, “stand down.”

Making sure to show his reluctance, Sungmin relaxes just a little. He keeps his gaze on the ambassador, waiting for the slightest gesture, a single word, anything that would give him an excuse to dropkick Anxi’s bloated carcass into the lake. Instead the ambassador holds his head high and struts out of the pavilion as if he’s won a battle. 

Sungmin follows him, crowding at Anxi’s heels until the ambassador’s bodyguards come nearer. He taps at his earpiece, tells his colleagues that the expedition is over, ordering an immediate return to the palace. As soon as he sees Anxi back with his security team, Sungmin spins on his heel and returns to the pavilion.

Zhou Mi is staring out at the water, nursing his bruised arm. He looks pale and broken in the uneven light cast by the gathering clouds, his emotions too easy to read. In the distance, somewhere on the far side of the lake, there’s a rumble of thunder. He closes his eyes against it, shivers even though the day is still unpleasantly warm, and then he looks at Sungmin. “He said my father despises me.”

“He is a jealous, embittered man,” Sungmin says. “Pay him no heed. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know anything about you.”

“He kissed me.” Zhou Mi touches his lips. He looks bewildered, disbelieving. “He said he expected me to— He demanded...” Shaking his head, Zhou Mi presses his fingers hard over his mouth, then drops his hand. Exhales. Pulls himself together. “He kissed me in hate. So he could humiliate me.”

“Highness...” Sungmin can’t stand by and do nothing. Not when the Prince looks so stripped of his dignity, so far removed from his earlier happiness. He leans forward, reaches up, and kisses Zhou Mi. He does it swiftly, carefully, very gently, then he pulls back. “There,” he says. “A kiss from someone who cares for you.”

Zhou Mi’s lips part. He stares at Sungmin, eyes wide, expression drowning, the last of the slanting rays of sunlight gleaming gold and copper fire through his hair.

And then they crush together, Sungmin going up on tiptoe and Zhou Mi swaying down, their mouths meeting, opening, the kiss flowering between them. It’s hot and urgent, gasp and plunge, hard and wet as they press closer. Zhou Mi bites at Sungmin’s lips; Sungmin sucks on Zhou Mi’s tongue. The embrace is measured in heartbeats, fast, faster, suddenly furious in its intensity. They kiss and kiss, pouring unspoken words into one another, and desire burns white-hot. 

The crackle of static in his earpiece hauls Sungmin back to reality. He drags himself away, steadies his breathing although he can’t slow his pulse. His head is full of Zhou Mi—the taste of him, the scent of him—and the memory of warmed leather beneath his palms makes Sungmin want to touch Zhou Mi all over again.

“We’re moving out,” Sungmin’s colleague reports through the earpiece. “Do you need help with the Prince?”

Sungmin swings around and looks at Zhou Mi, at his disordered hair and heightened colour and bruised lips. “No, thanks,” he says. “I’ve got this under control.”

*

The storm breaks just as they return to the palace. The sky turns black, dousing all brightness from the air, casting a dull light over everything. When the rain comes, it’s hard and sudden, long whips of water battering at vehicles and striking the road. The atmosphere is still too warm, and Sungmin is glad of the relief of the cold rain when he jumps from the Prince’s car and holds open the door for Zhou Mi. 

A footman emerges from the main entrance to the east palace clutching an umbrella, but Zhou Mi waves it away. He doesn’t run inside; he walks through the sheets of water as if the storm were nothing more than light drizzle. Within seconds he’s drenched, rain running like liquid silver down the leather changshan. Zhou Mi turns his face up to the heavens, scrubs a hand through his hair, and smiles. 

Inside, more servants hurry to greet them with warm towels and offers of hot drinks. Zhou Mi accepts one of the towels absently and drapes it around his neck. Sungmin makes ready to slip away, knowing one of his colleagues will take over his duty for the five minutes or so that he needs to change his clothes, but Zhou Mi pauses halfway up the grand staircase and looks in his direction.

“Agent Li,” he says, “I would have words with you.”

Sungmin bows. He can’t read anything from Zhou Mi’s voice or expression; he doesn’t know how this is going to go. He rehearses an apology— _I’m sorry I kissed you_ —but it rings false even in his own mind. He’s not sorry, and he’s even less sorry for the second kiss. Sungmin draws in a quick breath. He’ll never be sorry for that kiss, but maybe the Prince regrets it, and maybe this is where he’ll be paid off out of the stash of money in the third drawer of the writing bureau at the end of the corridor.

It feels like a lapse of protocol for him to enter the Prince’s bedchamber during the day, even if day seems more like night in the grip of the storm. Zhou Mi doesn’t turn on any of the lights. He goes to the window and looks out at the rain. Sungmin goes to him, notices the way Zhou Mi is still cradling his left arm.

“The ambassador hurt you, sir,” Sungmin says. “Let me send for a doctor.”

Zhou Mi shakes his head. Water drips from the ends of his hair to slink down his neck. “Did I seek out that pain?” he asks. “Did I invite it, somehow?”

“No.” Sungmin hears the ferocity in his tone. “No, Highness.”

There’s silence for a moment, a lull in the storm, and it feels heavy and expectant. Sungmin has gone into war zones and engaged in gunfights and fistfights, but right here, right now, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What he _should_ be doing is calling the doctor and a servant to see to the Prince’s comfort. He shouldn’t be standing here remembering the taste of Zhou Mi’s lips. He shouldn’t be staring at the path of raindrops down the Prince’s changshan and longing to follow them with his hands, his mouth.

“Thank you,” Zhou Mi says at last, and it’s so soft and quiet it’s barely audible. 

The air in the room seems to thicken. Sungmin waits.

Zhou Mi turns towards him, asks, “Do you really care for me?” and the look in his eyes tells Sungmin that he’s expecting rejection.

Sungmin doesn’t answer with words. He moves forward, reaches up and frames Zhou Mi’s face in his hands, then brings him down and kisses him. Not like that first kiss in the pavilion; not even like their second kiss. This is different; this is all-consuming. Sungmin slides one hand into Zhou Mi’s hair. The contrast teases him just the right way, cold wet hair against his skin as he loses himself in the wet warmth of Zhou Mi’s mouth.

The desire he’d reined in at the lake slips its leash again. Sungmin doesn’t hold back. Neither does Zhou Mi. Their tongues slide together, greedy, just as frantic as the last time, but there’s a certain inevitability to it now. Sungmin softens his mouth, lengthens their kisses. Zhou Mi makes a sound and presses closer. He tastes of the rain. 

Sungmin drops his hand to Zhou Mi’s shoulder. The leather changshan is cool and dry there, but when Sungmin strokes his fingers over Zhou Mi’s chest, he can feel runnels of water smoothing his way. He rubs, circling his fingers mindlessly, needing to focus on touch, needing to ground himself before the kiss steals away his soul. Then Zhou Mi urges Sungmin’s hand to the diamond strap and silver zip that hold the changshan closed.

The kiss breaks, but Sungmin can’t catch his breath. He tugs at the diamond strap; unfastens the zip. It purrs in a line from left to right and then in a diagonal slash down to join the side-seam. Sungmin drags open the zip slowly, mouth going dry as Zhou Mi’s body is revealed to his gaze.

Zhou Mi’s scent overwhelms him. Sungmin sways closer, breathes in the familiar fragrance of his cologne, the more tantalising smell of warm leather and a body slick with sweat. God, the heat from him, the soft, sweat-dampened leather on the inside of the changshan, the wash of arousal down Zhou Mi’s neck and over his chest... 

His desire is like a physical pain, as if it’s something Sungmin could cut out of himself and present to his Prince on a silver platter. He’s hard; he aches for this, for Zhou Mi. He takes one breath after another, finishes unzipping the changshan, and peels the leather from Zhou Mi’s damp skin.

Sungmin stares at Zhou Mi, forgets how to control himself. He kisses him just below the notch between Zhou Mi’s collarbones; kisses him open-mouthed, tongue flat against warm skin. He licks him, tasting the sweat, drawing in Zhou Mi’s heat, and pleasure flickers hot and red behind his eyelids.

Zhou Mi touches Sungmin’s cheek, draws him up. They kiss again, slower this time. Sungmin wants more of his Prince’s body, wants as much as Zhou Mi needs to give. They trade secrets through their kisses, gentle and teasing, time rolling away. They don’t speak in the spaces between kisses. Sungmin is glad of the silence. He doesn’t think he has any words to describe the enormity of his feelings.

Sungmin holds Zhou Mi by the shoulders, pushes him against the wall beside the window. He pins him there and kisses the sharp line of his jaw, the vulnerable sweep of his throat, the delicate collarbones. He slow-licks his way across Zhou Mi’s chest, sucks at his nipples, bites down on the sensitive flesh until Zhou Mi bucks against him, a gasp sliding into a moan. Sungmin strokes his hands down, dragging the unzipped changshan over Zhou Mi’s hips. The leather creaks and shuffles as it catches and falls, and then Zhou Mi steps out of it, kicks the changshan away and leans back against the wall, settling Sungmin between his thighs. 

Sungmin has one hand over Zhou Mi’s cock, the heel of his palm pressing down even as Zhou Mi grinds up against him. The shape of his dick is outlined warm and hard through the leather trousers. They’re made of much thinner leather than the changshan and they fit like a second skin, tight enough that Sungmin can feel everything, the weight of Zhou Mi’s balls, the hard ridge of his cock straining at the zipper. Sungmin rubs his fingers beneath Zhou Mi’s balls, strokes along the seam in the garment as it runs between Zhou Mi’s legs to his ass.

The feral smell of their arousal paints the air. They kiss, violent and needy this time, and now Zhou Mi is pulling at Sungmin’s clothes, yanking at his tie then abandoning it when the knot only tightens. He seizes a handful of Sungmin’s shirt, tears at it, pulls his shirttails from his trousers as Sungmin shrugs off his jacket. 

Thunder booms. There’s the taste of lightning in the air, and it’s like the tang of blood, hot and coppery. Sungmin feels as if he’s inside the storm, caught in a daze of kissing, his senses reaching out and every one of them entangled with Zhou Mi. They rut up hard against one another, breathe harsh and wet into each other’s mouths. They can’t stop touching.

The ringtone of Sungmin’s phone shatters the moment. They wrench apart, and Sungmin puts distance between himself and Zhou Mi before he pulls out his phone, staring at the screen without comprehension. Lust pounds through his veins. He wants to dismiss the call and go back to Zhou Mi, but it’s too late. He has to take this call.

“Yes,” he barks, and it’s a measure of how rattled he is that he speaks in Korean rather than Mandarin. He glances at Zhou Mi, who won’t meet his gaze. The Prince runs a hand over his face then pushes away from the wall and strides half naked into the adjoining bathroom. The door snaps shut behind him.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then Colonel Han says, “Li Cheng Min?”

Sungmin grits his teeth. Concentrates. “Yes, sir,” he says in Mandarin.

“I expected your report half an hour ago.” There’s no censure in Colonel Han’s voice, just a slight curiosity. “Your colleagues informed me that something happened today at Liangzi Lake. A possible security breach.”

_Shit_. Sungmin rubs at his forehead. Beyond the bathroom door, he can hear the shower running. He imagines Zhou Mi naked and wet, skin glistening. _Focus_. He’s broken protocol, and this time he should be punished for it. 

As succinctly as possible, Sungmin tells Colonel Han what happened in the pavilion. He omits mention of the kiss. He goes on to explain that the Prince wanted to talk to him—“He always wants to talk to you,” Colonel Han says, without heat or suspicion—and that’s why he didn’t report sooner. Sungmin also omits mention of the other kisses and the fact that he had his hands all over the Prince and that Zhou Mi had his hands all over his bodyguard. He finishes by saying, “His Highness is in the bathroom.”

“I see.” This time there’s a thread of something—respect, perhaps, or maybe veiled amusement—in Colonel Han’s voice. “Very well, then. Inform His Highness that His Majesty the King is arriving within the hour.”

*

Sungmin changes his clothes, swaps one serviceable dark suit and plain white shirt for another. He spends some time unpicking the tightened knot in his tie, reliving Zhou Mi’s frustration and his own need. It sends an echo of desire through him, lust simmering just below the surface. He could jerk off now, get it over with in a few hasty minutes, but he doesn’t want that. He’s going to save this feeling and come back to it when his duties are finished for the night, and then he’s going to fuck his hand and scream into his pillow, and he’s going to do it over and over until he’s exhausted Zhou Mi from his system. 

It’s almost the hour of the Dog. Time to move. Sungmin checks his appearance in the mirror then leaves his quarters and walks at a steady pace to the main body of the palace. He takes up position against the wall in the smallest of the dining rooms, nodding to a bodyguard he recognises as belonging to the King of Chu.

The gong strikes the hour, and a short while later the King, the Prince, and four government ministers enter the room and take their places around the table. Zhou Mi’s attention is on his father and the ministers, as expected and required, but just as the first course is served, he flicks a glance at Sungmin. That brief look warms him, but Sungmin gives no acknowledgement, offers nothing in exchange. He’s just doing his job.

Part of his job is not to hear the conversations going on in front of him, but he finds himself unable to disengage from it today, especially when the King starts scolding Zhou Mi as if he were a recalcitrant child rather than the Prince of Wu.

“Ambassador Anxi will return with me to Nanjing tomorrow,” the King says, his gaze thick with irritation. “The trade talks will continue under my auspices. I had hoped to be saved the trouble, but it seems as if you are incapable of managing even the smallest piece of diplomacy...”

Zhou Mi sets down his chopsticks and bows his head.

“You know how important this alliance is,” the King continues. “The last thing we want is for Wei to start dealing with the Kingdom of Qi instead of us. Now Ambassador Anxi is insulted. It will take much to soothe his pride. Why did you quarrel with him? You should have done everything in your power to please and flatter him.”

Zhou Mi looks up, cold anger in his eyes. “Would His Majesty my father have me sell myself?”

The King snorts, waves a hand. “What’s one more shameful act to you? Your perversions already number so many. It’s embarrassing.”

Sungmin clenches his jaw. He forces himself to stillness and calm, but he feels the King’s insults as keenly as if they were directed at him.

Zhou Mi leans forward. “You didn’t answer the question, Father. Did you want me to allow the ambassador into my bed? Did you want me to spread my legs for him and allow him to fuck me?”

Silence rolls around the room. The ministers look down at their plates.

The King stares at his son. “I expected you to do whatever was necessary to ensure the trade agreement.”

“Father—”

“Whatever was necessary,” the King repeats, his tone as hard and sharp as broken glass. “You are my only son, and you are such a disappointment.”

Zhou Mi jerks back in his seat as if slapped, then he rallies. “How can I be a disappointment when I have ensured economic prosperity and stability for the people of Wu? This state is the heartland of Chu—what benefits Wu benefits the whole kingdom. I have worked hard to develop the infrastructure, providing better education and extending much-needed help to farmers. The damming project will bring even greater rewards.”

“The dam is nonsense.” The King scowls. “You waste your time on such things.”

“Your Majesty.” One of the ministers breaks his silence. “The dam is a more than viable project. Hydroelectric power is cheaper and more efficient, and construction of the dam and turbine halls will not only provide employment, it will lessen the need for coal from the State of Zhao. It makes Wu, and by extension Chu, closer to being self-sufficient.” 

The King slams a fist on the table. “Do not presume to lecture me!”

“Sire.” The minister bows but continues speaking. “His Highness the Prince is an able administrator and carefully considers every option placed before him. Not all leaders are so conscientious, nor are they as capable.”

“He ruined the negotiations with Ambassador Anxi with his wilful pride!” the King shouts. “He ruined months of hard work!”

“There will be other delegations,” Zhou Mi says quietly, “other chances for negotiation. There are other ways of diplomacy. Send the ambassador back to Wei tomorrow, for you will get nothing out of him now.”

The King’s face turns red. “Insolent boy! What do you know?”

Zhou Mi gets to his feet, his chair scraping back across the rug. “I know that if a king whores out his only son and heir to a duke of a neighbouring realm, then it makes that king look weak and desperate and greedy.” His eyes flash. “I will not bow to a duke, and neither will I bow to a king who offers such an insult to his own flesh and blood. Goodnight, Father; gentlemen.” He nods to the ministers, who gaze at him with something close to admiration, and then he walks away from the table.

“Sit down,” the King thunders. “Zhou Mi! Come back here and sit down!”

Zhou Mi carries on walking.

Sungmin bites his lip to stop from smiling. He bows towards the King, making it a perfunctory gesture, then follows his Prince from the room.

*

Sungmin breaks protocol again by entering Zhou Mi’s bedchamber without invitation. The door is closed against everyone; Sungmin simply opens it and walks in. He knows he did the right thing when Zhou Mi turns and looks at him, the flash of relief in his eyes cutting through the expression of worried guilt. “What have I done?” 

Though it seems rhetorical, Sungmin answers anyway. “What you needed to do.”

Zhou Mi shakes his head. “He will be so angry.”

Sungmin keeps his tone level. “Sir, he insulted you.”

“He is my _father_.”

“And you are his son and heir!” Sungmin pauses for a moment, searches for words. “You did what was right. Your ministers support you. You should bow to no man who is not your equal in some way.” He crosses the room, kneels at Zhou Mi’s feet. “Your Highness, know that I will follow you into Hell if that is what you desire.”

Zhou Mi catches his breath. “Don’t kneel to me. I don’t want that. I just want...”

“I know.” Sungmin lifts his head, looks up at his Prince. Slowly he gets to his feet, holding his gaze. “I know what you want. I would give it gladly.”

They stare at one another. Zhou Mi’s face is expressionless now; the silence growing, stretching until Sungmin thinks he’s made a mistake, and then Zhou Mi whispers his name— _Sungmin, Sungmin_ —just like that, and comes towards him with an awkward, stumbling step so unlike his usual elegant poise, and Sungmin knows it’s all right, it’s more than all right, it’ll be perfect.

Sungmin kisses him, says against Zhou Mi’s mouth, “This time, Highness, we stop for nothing.”

Zhou Mi laughs, the sound going through them both, sparking desire. They kiss, tear at each other’s clothes, stagger step by step to the bed, discarding garments in their wake. The quilt is cool and slithery beneath them; Sungmin shoves it back, wanting to see Zhou Mi’s pale skin and the flame of his hair spread out on the dark sheets. He rolls Zhou Mi beneath him, eats at him with hungry kisses until he melts into the embrace with glorious abandon.

Sungmin is hard and ready. It feels like he’s been waiting for this since that day in Milan, since the moment he first held his Prince. He presses Zhou Mi back against the pillows, kisses him once more on the mouth, then dips down to his throat. He feels the flutter of Zhou Mi’s pulse, tastes warm skin, inhales the heady, familiar scent. Sungmin licks across Zhou Mi’s chest. With delicate precision, he teases a nipple with short, sharp strokes of his tongue. He suckles, drawing the peak into his mouth, and Zhou Mi rises against him.

“Harder,” Zhou Mi commands, breathless. “Bite me.”

Sungmin bites down. Zhou Mi thrusts up against him, rubbing his cock shamelessly along Sungmin’s thigh, all hot and hard and sticky dabs of wetness. Sungmin growls, adjusts his position. He traces lower, tasting his way across Zhou Mi’s belly. His tongue flicks into Zhou Mi’s navel, swift and teasing, and Zhou Mi jolts, gasping.

Lower now, nuzzling through dark pubic hair, laying the briefest of touches against Zhou Mi’s dick. Sungmin lifts his head, looks up at his Prince, then licks a hot, wet stripe all the way up his cock. He goes to it with slow patience, curls his tongue around the hard flesh, working it back and forth until Zhou Mi’s cock gleams wet. He dances his tongue along the vein on the underside, then takes him in and sucks him deep.

Zhou Mi makes a strangled noise and drives up, jagged and wild. Sungmin holds him down, exerting subtle, implacable control, both hands on his thighs, thumbs notched over the pulse points between groin and leg. Zhou Mi stills, is silenced except for the breaths panting out of him. Sungmin slides his tongue over him, wet and lewd, then releases the pressure of his grip and rolls Zhou Mi back on his spine, burrowing his face lower, seeking deeper, earthier pleasure.

“Oh,” Zhou Mi says, like he’s surprised. “ _Oh_.” He doesn’t squirm this time. He rocks further back, lifts right up so Sungmin can get at him, and Sungmin licks and licks until Zhou Mi’s thighs are trembling and his breathing sounds hot and raw, and he’s saying things like _yes, there, that’s so good_ and _please, more, I want you to fill me up_ , and the sound of it, the slurp-squelch of his tongue in Zhou Mi’s ass, the desperate note in Zhou Mi’s voice, just makes Sungmin harder. He slides a finger into Zhou Mi alongside his tongue, buries it all the way in and fucks him with it. 

Zhou Mi makes a desperate, guttural sound. “Yes, yes.”

Sungmin pulls away, face covered in saliva, his chest heaving. Lust batters at him. He stretches out on the bed. “Get on top of me.”

Zhou Mi yanks at the bedside drawer, pulls out condoms and lube. He’s blushing. “Wait,” he says, “let me—” and sprawls across Sungmin’s thighs. Sungmin jerks up in instinctive response when Zhou Mi touches his tongue to the slit in Sungmin’s cock, tastes the welling fluid there. God yes, it’s so fucking good, and Sungmin puts a hand to the side of Zhou Mi’s head. He doesn’t force him down but strokes through the softness of Zhou Mi’s hair over and over, shuddering with the need to keep control. Zhou Mi takes him deeper, and Sungmin knows they have to stop before he loses it completely.

He fumbles for the condoms, tears open a foil packet with his teeth and sheathes his dick with careful haste. Zhou Mi watches him, gaze hot and avid. Sungmin slows down as he squeezes out the lube, letting it warm on his fingers before he slicks it on. He can’t resist, pumps his cock through his wet fist and moans at the tight, hungry pleasure. Zhou Mi echoes the sound, coating his fingertips with more lube and working it around and inside his hole, fucking himself on his fingers.

“Mount me, Highness,” Sungmin says. “I want to see you ride my cock.”

A shudder goes through Zhou Mi. “Use my name. Please.”

“Zhou Mi.” Sungmin savours the taste of his Prince’s name, feels pleasure twist higher. “Get on me. Fuck yourself on me.”

Zhou Mi kneels over him and sinks down on a long gasp of pleasure. “I knew you’d feel good inside me. Oh, you’re big. That’s—that’s...”

Sungmin groans at the sensation, sparks flowering across his vision. Zhou Mi is tighter than he’d expected, internal muscles rippling and flexing, milking Sungmin’s cock hard. A gasp of praise rips from him—“God, you feel _incredible_ ”—and then he drives up hard into Zhou Mi, overwhelmed with the urge to fuck.

Zhou Mi keens. “More. Harder.” He stares down at Sungmin, gaze burning, hips snapping and grinding. “Need it. Give it to me. Everything. I want everything.”

The furious demand sends Sungmin’s arousal to near-painful level. He snarls, lets slip his vaunted control, lets go. He grasps Zhou Mi’s hips, holds tight enough to bruise the fine, pale skin, and pounds up into Zhou Mi’s body with every ounce of strength and determination he possesses.

The scent of musk and sweat surrounds them; their gasps and moans pierce the air. Sensation layers and builds, pushing Sungmin closer and closer to the edge. Above him, Zhou Mi closes his eyes, body going tight with tension. He hangs in the balance, rides Sungmin a little more, slows from a gallop to a trot, gasp and gasps and speeds up again, and then he snaps back his head and cries out, orgasm tearing through him. He bucks, shuddering as he comes, seed spattering across his belly and chest.

Sungmin fucks into him harder, deeper, watching Zhou Mi break apart. He’s never seen anything so gorgeous. With a final thrust, Sungmin comes, his spunk jetting hot and hard. He groans, rocks into Zhou Mi some more. Ecstasy closes around him, walling in the knowledge that there’s no going back from this. 

*

They clean up and cuddle together beneath the quilts, touching one another with all the curiosity of new lovers. Sungmin wonders if this was inevitable; if he saved the Prince’s life only to give over his own in exchange. Because that’s what this feels like; as if he’s been remade. Or perhaps it always feels this way when it comes to love.

They kiss and whisper soft, nonsensical things and laugh together. Sungmin has never felt so relaxed; Zhou Mi looks happy and content, the shadows in his eyes chased away for now.

The telephone rings. Not Sungmin’s phone this time but the one on the bedside table. Zhou Mi stretches across the bed for it, lifts the receiver—“Yes?”—and surprise flashes across his face as he listens. “Yes, of course. One moment.” He holds out the phone, looking perplexed. “It’s for you.”

Sungmin sits up, his pulse racing suddenly. He takes the phone. “Yes.”

“Li Cheng Min,” Colonel Han says, voice clipped, “perhaps you would be so good as to put this call on speaker phone.” 

“Sir.” Sungmin frowns, but obeys. “It’s done, sir.”

“Good.” Colonel Han pauses. There’s the sound of paper being shuffled. “I have new orders for you. Following the verbal altercation between His Majesty and His Highness over dinner, the King has commanded that the Prince be punished for his unfilial attitude. Until further notice, His Highness will be kept under close guard. He is permitted no lovers from outside the palace. Do you understand?”

Sungmin glances at Zhou Mi, who stares back at him in wonder, laughter dancing in his expression.

“No lovers from outside the palace,” Sungmin repeats. “Understood, sir.”

“Excellent.” Colonel Han almost sounds amused. “I knew I could rely on you, Cheng Min. You’re so very attentive to your duties. In fact, since His Majesty was so particular in demanding a close guard on His Highness, I took the liberty of assigning you to the position.”

“So,” Sungmin says, trying to ignore the sputter of glee that Zhou Mi tries to stifle behind his hands, “my new duties are...” 

“To remain with His Highness at all times,” Colonel Han says. “All times, Agent Li. Day and night. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely.” Sungmin manages to keep his tone professional. “Thank you, sir.”

“No, no,” Colonel Han murmurs, “thank _you_ ,” and hangs up.

Sungmin sets down the phone. He draws Zhou Mi close, kisses him, laughs with him; dares to make plans for a future. 

He knows his place. It’s right here, at his Prince’s side.


End file.
